


can't remember when

by shogo



Series: arcadia [1]
Category: Psycho-Pass
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood, Denial, Established Relaitonship, M/M, Mentions of Murder, Past Lives, Selective Amnesia, Stitches, Unresolved Sexual Tension, memory repression, suicidal behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-11-12 07:28:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11157126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shogo/pseuds/shogo
Summary: sometimes it's easier to forget





	can't remember when

Makishima is humming something.

It’s soft, and it doesn’t really bother him. It's more like the white noise backgroumd static that you didn't _really_ here until you eventually notice it. The albino has a light, quiet kind of voice that Kougami thinks would’ve done him well in another life. He liked to listen to the other man speak more than he liked to admit. In the mornings when he’d just woken up or in the evening when he was so tired he could hardly keep his eyes open he would oftentimes forget that he was supposed to hate the very sound of Makishima’s voice.

He would forget more frequently than he cared to admit, but he didn’t know if that was because of his constant state of exhaustion or because of the others ever present and ever unyielding charisma. 

It felt almost like a betrayal everytime he remembered and it stung at him. Every time he recalled the 'how' in the reason they were together now it was like a twisting knife slicing and ripping through his stomach. He was a traitor to his friends and to his beliefs and even to his own body. Makishima had been the temptation, but Kougami had been the one to take the fruit. 

He closes his eyes and tries to silence his thoughts. He seems to havr done this more and more as of late; a last ditch attempt to salvage what’s left of his old self. 

That tune though, the lovely absent-minded song that Makishima’s humming is distinctly familiar although he knows that it’s a far shot that he’s ever heard it before. Music wasn’t a very common thing in this new age, finding far too many restrictions and censors to truly exist as what used to be called ‘music’. 

“What song is that?” He asks. His voice is hoarse and cracked from disuse and mistreatment. That bastard Rutaganda hadn’t bothered to hold back in the slightest.

Makishima doesn’t answer him for a moment, continuing to run what could almost be taken as a tender touch if it were anyone else through Kougami’s blood matted hair. He has what used to be a white towelette in hand, (now more redish-pink), and Kougami can see the colored water in the basin just off to the side on him.

He doesn't even remember finding his way back to here. Didn’t remember stumbling through the dark with nothing but a hollow, numb sort of feeling fueling the entirety of his way. Akane’s expression still etched into his memory, her bitter disappointment in his words and actions clear as day. 

He closes his eyes as the sharp sting of regret pricks at his skin, crawling up and over him like a thousand legged insect. He’d let her down, he knee this. He’d let them all down.

“Not something you’d know.” Makishima murmurs, letting his hand slide down the side of Kougami’s face to brush against what Kougami was sure was a smarting bruise on the top of his cheekbone. He winces, even the light touch stung like a motherfucker. 

He sees Makishima’s face twitch, just in the slightest. You wouldn’t have even noticed it if you didn’t know what to look for. 

But Kougami did. 

He watches Makishima more carefully now for more slips, grey eyes following the shadows beneath those dark eyelashes and the slight downturn of those pale lips. There weren’t any secrets here, couldn’t be. Not when it was between you and your reflection.

“You don’t seem to have much faith in me.” Kougami says, wincing again as he struggles to sit up straighter from where he’d collapsed onto the mattress the night before. Makishima was sitting to the right of him, long legs curled up beneath him and a light-colored sweater hanging loose on his angular shoulders. Golden eyes surveyed every movement, reading him as though he were transparent.

“That’s not what I meant.” Makishima sighs and dips the cloth into the warm water again before trailing it across the excess blood still clinging onto his face and jaw. “And you know it.”

Kougami doesn’t respond, doesn’t really need to. He tries his best to sit still, not wanting to aggravate Makishima to the point of spite cruelty. 

It was a complete turn of events, this little commencement of hospital. Only a few years back it’d been Kougami with the sutures and wraps (despite him being the cause of injury). It was strange, almost surreal. Seeing Makishima like this, waking to the albino sitting at his side with a neutral expression and a light touch. 

He forgets oftentimes that Makishima is in the same situation that he is. This odd game of tug-o-where neither really understand _what_ it is between them, but also seems to comprehend that it’s an inescapable fate. A metaphorical string looped tightly around them like the cold grip of a noose and keeping them trapped together. 

“Who did this?”

Kougami glances at him, taking in the carefully schooled expression that was painted onto those deceivingly delicate features. “Not somebody you’d know.” 

Makishima’s lip twitches downwards, and Kougami can see the blatant irritation that flashes through those amber irises. And as he’d expected, there was suddenly a sharp sting on his cheek as Makishima pressed down far harder than necessary. He hisses and shoots Makishima a dark look. 

Silence falls quickly then. Makishima resumes wiping away the blood, inspecting each wound with a critical eye. Kougami stays quiet as well, content with reflecting on the past few days events and allowing Makishima to continue. It provides him an ample oppertunity to watch the other, taking careful notice of all the fragile bones in his face and the swooping, perfect curve of his nose. He'd long ago made amends with himself for finding Makishima aesthetically atttactive, figuring that it wouldn't do to constantly berete himself for staring.

Some part of him wondered if this was even real at all, and the events of the last few days left the seeds of nagging doubt in his mind.

Eventually though Makishima seems to be pleased, setting the cloth in the basin. He reaches forward to lightly cup Kougami’s jaw. Carefully tilting the ex-Enforcer’s face to glance over his handiwork, Makishima’s eyes flicker up to lock with Kougami’s for a brief second before releasing him and pulling back a ways. 

“Have you ever heard of Frédéric Chopin?”

Kougami is startled for a moment at the sound of Makishima’s voice, brow furrowing a bit as he watches as Makishima somewhat abruptly wrings the towel and rises off of the mattress to go change the water in the sink over in the kitchenette corner of this minuscule flat. “I’ve heard _of_ him.” He says eventually. "But not much else other than that I'm afraid."

There’s a brief pause as Makishima comes back over and sits on the edge closest to Kougami this time, suddenly very near to him. Kougami can see the light baby hairs that have fallen out of the makeshift tie at Makishima’s back, his hair having grown even longer as time passed. The long column of his neck is littered with light speckled scars that hadn’t been there a few years ago, not until Kougami made them himself. But one scar in particular always captures Kougami’s attention; a distinct mark just at the juncture of Makishima’s neck and shoulder in the perfect display of the sharp teeth involved in a merciless bite. 

Makishima sets the basin down and reaches forward to tug at the bottom of Kougami’s shirt. Quickly catching on, Kougami pulls the offending item off, keeping his eyes fixed on Makishima. 

The rest of his body was as bad as his face, he knew. There hadn’t been any holding back from Rutaganda or his stupid fucking followers. Even Ginoza hadn’t shown a shred of mercy in that punch of his and Kougami finds himself cringing a but at the memory.

Makishima pushes at his shoulder’s until he lets himself fall back against the headboard, exhaling loudly as he did so. Every part of him was groaning in protest at every movement he made. Persevering onwards with the shattered remains of Division 1 even after that beating Rutaganda gave him definitely hadn’t been the smartest move in the long run of things regarding letting his body heal.

“That song,” Makishima starts again, voice just as silvery as ever, “is Chopin’s Nocturne Opus 9 Number 2.”

Kougami stays silent, flinching as Makishima touches at a sore spot. He ached down to his bones; feeling broken in every way possible.

A nagging concern had been hovering around him ever since his escape from capture, but Kougami had just done what he did best— ignored it. The seeds if doubt had been sowed, but if he did his best to forget they existed hopefully they would wither away and die.

His eyes trailed over the man that looked as though he’d been an angel in another lifetime, trying his damnedest to convince himself that this wasn’t another trick. 

“It was his most famous piece.” Makishima continues, eyes flickering unreadably at a particularly nasty looking injury. “But he never spoke much about it. It slipped out of the public’s mind for years and years, until it was too late for anybody who’d come to care about the piece to find him and ask about it.” Another wring of the cloth, the sound of water spilling into thr basin. “It was dedicated to the first man who’d ever believed in him. The owner of the venue of his first concert.” 

“It was a gift?” Kougami asks when Makishima quiets. 

Makishima raises his shoulders in a noncommittal shrug. “Perhaps.” 

“Something like that…” Kougami sighs, thinking back to the time Yayoi told him about a song she’d written for a past friend of hers. The commitment and heart that went into developing something so personal completely for somebody else. “It’s a really special thing to do for somebody. You don’t talk about it because you can’t. People were made for feeling, not for explaining what it is they feel.”

Makishima makes a soft sound in response and it’s one of those rare times that Kougami can’t tell what it is that he meant by it. He often wonders about the extent of Makishima’s emotions. If the other man is merely good at hiding things or if he can even feel at all. 

Kougami reaches for his wrist and pulls him forward to close the short distance between them. Their lips meet effortlessly and he can feel how easily Makishima yields to him, full lips parting under his own and a soft sigh escaping him as he opens his mouth to Kougami’s. 

It’s a bittersweet thing, what they have. It flickers precariously between the boundaries of fantasy and reality and as time ticks on Kougami finds it more and more difficult to tell the two apart from one another. 

It’s easier to ignore and do your damnedest to forget, especially when there isn’t a way to escape from the past that constantly trails behind you, ready to worm it’s way into your skull and _force_ you to remember what you’ve tried so hard to leave behind.

But it’s an easier task to accomplish when there’s a pair of warm, willing lips against yours. Easier to let it all slip away like sand through your fingers when there’s silken hair brushing your cheek and a solid chest pressing to your own. 

The feeling of companionship is addicting, and the accompanying feeling of having someone like Makishima is even more so. 

Someone who somehow can read— can _understand—_ everything that you’ve never been able to express in words or in actions. Those dark, private thoughts that make you who you are but are too delicate to let go. 

He releases Makishima’s wrist and instead curls his fingers into those pale strands of hair at the back of Makishima’s neck, holding on tightly and tilting his head to seal their mouths together more firmly.

Makishima sighs again, his own hands going up to grip at Kougami’s shoulders. Their tongues slide together slick and wet and Makishima’s mouth fits so fucking _perfectly_ against his own. The albino's so warm against him-- almost feverishly so-- as they push closer to one another in the isolated privacy of their flat.

Kougami wants to pull him more solidly onto the mattress, pull the albino onto his lap and just _take him_ like that, but there's suddenly a sharp pain shooting through his abdomen and he jerks away, hissing in pain. It feels like he’s been burned, speared through with a hot iron, and he releases Makishima almost immediately.

He catches a glimpse of the surprise in Makishima’s expression before that golden gaze is trained on the wound he’d been eyeing before, the wound that’s now been reopened. 

“Fucking hell--!” Kougami bites out, equal parts irritated and viciously in pain. He’s been through worse and come out on the other side, but that didn’t stop any of it from hurting any less. 

He catches the faint smirk on Makishima’s face before that blank expression is snapped back into place and just barely manages restrain himself from snapping a bitter comment at him. But that would only stir something up and end in frustration for the both of them. They both had a tendency to take things too far, not knowing when to stop until it was too late and old wounds were ripped open once more. It wouldn’t do any good to start something, especially not when they were actually getting along.

Makishima had gotten out the slapdash first aid kit a while back, and had now retrieved it for the few butterfly stitches that they had left. He kept the cloth— which was now definitely less so _white_ and more so _bloodstained brown_ — pressed down hard on to wound which was now oozing blood with sluggish enthusiasm. 

“Only you,” Makishima says, and Kougami can hear the amusement and exasperation in his voice. “know how to keep getting yourself into these kinds of situations.”

Flashes of a past buried deep underneath hours and hours of effort and misdirection resurface and flicker through Kougami’s mind; a sun dipping below the horizon, wind rippling through a golden field, white stained red; the color of deepest sin, and the horrible, ringing resonation of a revolver firing.

Kougami lets them slip away. That’s one of the things that they don’t mention to each other. That day was better left forgotten in the past. So he doesn’t comment, choosing instead to let the corner of his mouth quirk up just slightly as Makishima’s gaze flickers up to look at him.

The stitches slide under his skin and pull the cut together, Makishima is steady and meticulous in his work, hands sure and careful.

(Kougami wonders just how many times Makishima’s pulled somebody back together again rather than take them apart at the seams.) 

“I got him back either way.” Kougami says as Makishima finishes the final stitch. The albino spares him a glance, questioning look in his expression. “The guy who's responsible for all of this.”

“Meaning…?” Meaning that Makishima wants to hear what ‘getting him back’ means. Because the last time Kougami had steeled himself to ‘get someone back’ he’d ended up with a pretty kept pet with whom he’d regularly fuck into whatever flat surface happened to be close by.

“Meaning that his cause is lost. He’s dead and gone, me and an old friend made sure of that.”

"An old friend? One of the guerrillas?" 

Kougami hesitates. "No. Older than that."

Makishima goes silent, tapping a finger against the hard ridges of Kougami’s abs with pursed lips. “Ah. I see. So the PSB is here then?” 

Kougami hadn’t told him. Hadn’t wanted too and hadn’t bothered too. He rarely kept the other man up on world events and on the things Kougami was getting up to these days, not wanting to hear any snide remarks or see any cool smiles. It wasn’t any of the albino’s business what went on with Sibyl anymore, Japan or not and Kougami had deemed it best to keep most news of the outside worlds going on’s a complete secret from Makishima's malice.

Kougami tilts his head and gives a cautious nod. “Division 1 only. And they've left already anyhow.”

The conflict on the other man’s expression is clear. His jaw is tight, a straight, cold line and the displeasure is obvious. “But they _were_ here.” He repeats hollowly. 

Kougami itches to reach out and grab Makishima’s wrist again, just to _do_ something to still the other. “None of it was about what you're thinking.”

“You don’t know what I’m thinking.” Makishima snaps at him, and tries to rip his hand away. His expression is completely smooth right now, that cold, condescending look in place that he wears to distance himself. “You seem to believe that you’re better able to read me than you actually are.”

Kougami feels his jaw tick. “You know that that’s not true.”

Makishima snorts and tries to pull away again. His actions were becoming less and less graceful and more and more strange and unpracticed. He could and would attack if provoked and given the chance and Kougami had somehow pushed enough berserk buttons to tick Makishima off.

“You’re being unreasonable.” Kougami says hotly, jerking at his arm to keep him grounded near the bed. He was still injured, his body still sore and freshly stitched. He definitely wasn’t in a state to fight with someone, least of all Makishima, who at this point knew all his actions down to a T. 

Makishima sneers at him but doesn’t try to tug himself away any longer.“ Me? That’s laughable. I’m not the one running around with PSB officers _trying_ to be caught.”

“They all think you’re dead! You wouldn’t even have to worry about that in the first place!”

“You think Sybil doesn’t know? That they didn’t think the lack of a body was suspicious? For fucks sake, Kougami you’re a detective! You know how dangerous it is to keep in contact with them!”

“I haven’t kept in contact!” Kougami barks back, his grip on the other man tightening into a bone crushing grip. He faintly registers Makishima wincing under his hold but blindly ignores it. “And you know that! I gave up everything for you!”

A thousand things flicker across Makishima’s face then. Shock, pain, gratification… He seems so lost for a moment that Kougami feels the wind fly out from under him. This rare, unique expression that the albino wore that was just so _raw,_ so _open_ … 

Then, “You didn’t do it for me.” Makishima murmurs, his arm limp in Kougami’s grasp. There’s something strange in his tone that Kougami chooses to ignore, not wanting to put names to certain things that sometimes bubble up between them. “You did it for yourself.”

Kougami makes a noise, a helpless, sad thing and softens the grip he has on Makishima. There’s so many things that’ve happened here, just in this short window of time. “There’s no difference in those two things.” He tells Makishima with a note of finality. “They’re one and the same.”

A smile twitches at the corners of Makishima’s lips and his gaze is so full, all of those little things that flickered by in an instant now trying to let themselves be known. “I suppose you’re right.” He laughs a little and his gaze flickers over the battered plane of Kougami’s body. “And look at what that’s cost you.”

Kougami lets his own lips pull upwards, the tension from earlier melting away to leave only the cold empty feeling of exhaustion in its place. “This? This is a regular day for me at this point.” Makishima offers his own strange, barely-there smile in return and understanding.

They fall into silence once more but this time the strain isn’t there. It’s comfortable and every bit the amity that the both of them covertly wished for every day. The constant hysteria and insanity that seemed to follow their partnership around never seemed to cease, always clawing and whispering at them until they snapped and erupted in argument. 

“I won’t leave.” Kougami said softly, and that was all it took.

This time it’s Makishima surging forward to press his lips against Kougami’s with his hand still cradled in Kougami’s own. 

This time it's different.

It was exploratory but not quite chaste, those sorts of things didn’t exist between them. Innocence and chasity wouldn’t do with what it took to satisfy the both of them. There was too much desire, too much fervor for one another.

Their lips slid together like they belonged and the soft keen that Makishima made when Kougami dragged his lower lip between his teeth was nothing if not beautiful. 

This was singular and unique and quite possibly the closest thing Kougami’s ever had to experiencing a religious epiphany and he can’t help the scathing sting in his chest as he pulls away from that full mouth.

That _thing_ he'd been nursing in the back of his mind since he'd managed to escape Rutaganda. That terrible, sickening _thing_ that'd twisted and ruined his entire concept of modern reality.

“There’s something else.”

“What is it?” Makishima whispers against his lips, breath coming out in short, shallow pants. He’s leaning more heavily against Kougami now, careful to avoid the freshly patched wound but a solid enough presence to encourage an ache of arousal humming low in Kougami’s skin. Their hands are crushed between their chests and Makishima’s got his other one tangled up in the baby hairs on the back of Kougami’s head. His own is looped around Makishima, keeping a tight grip on the man’s waist.

“I saw you.” Kougami whispers back, swallowing thickly around the lump in his throat. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it, the memory running like a low hum in the furthest crevice of his conscience. 

Makishima of course, takes it in stride. Collected and calm until the end. He stays quiet, only humming to let Kougami know he’s heard him. He picks it up easily that Kougami's stressed about something, that this isn't a meaningless whim he's worked himself up over. Long fingers are running through the hair on the sides of his temple now and Kougami allows himself to slowly relax. 

“I _saw_ you, but you weren’t really there.” Kougami continues feeling increasing hysteria crawl into his chest. Neither of them were sane, he’d come to realize this long ago, but seeing visions of people… especially very much _alive_ people was an entirely new concept. 

Makishima’s eyebrow twitches but he doesn’t give anything else away. Continues to listen and stroke at the side of Kougami’s face with an attentive, neutral face.

“And I don’t know what was wrong with me.” Kougami murmurs. “But it was the you from before, the you from Japan.”

Makishima makes a small noise of amusement. “I am the me from Japan, Shinya.”

“No, not like that.” Kougami says, growing increasingly agitated. “It was the you from the field. The you I--”

That seems to resonate to Makishima. That strange confession, the admittance that Kougami had forcefully separated the man in bed with him now from the man he'd once tried to put a bullet through. The doubtfulness in Makishima's expression that Kougami hadn’t even realized was there melts away. He doesn’t falter in his movements. “So what did you do?” He asks the question like he already knows the answer and Kougami finds himself hesitating with something that seems remarkably close to shame. 

“I shot him.” Kougami says bluntly, still watching Makishima’s expression for any ticks or giveaways. “He vanished.”

“I see.” Makshima says evenly, swiping his index finger over Kougami’s cheekbone with a slight frown twitching at his lips. “Then it seems like the problem solved itself.” 

The fact that he skims over his imaginary death like it was nothing but a passing notion startles Kougami for a moment. Then he remembers that only a few years ago this man had tried to pull off an extrordinarily complex plot of anarchism that would've ultimately ended in his death anyway.

“Is that what you think of that?”Kougami asks, allowing amusement touching at his voice and feeling tension in his chest easing a bit as a result. Makishima shrugs. “You wouldn’t make for a very good therapist.”

Makishima offers a dry smile. “I don’t think I ever said that I was qualified for something like that.”

Kougami kisses him again, swiping his tongue along the bruised bottom lip of the other before pulling away again. 

“I don’t know what to think of it.” He says lowly, and he isn’t sure what he’s talking about anymore. 

Makishima sighs and pulls his hand away from Kougami’s to instead loop them around the raven’s neck. He settles himself more firmly against Kougami’s chest and lowers his head to rest snugly against the hollow of Kougami’s neck. 

“I don’t know either Shinya.” He murmurs eventually and his breath is warm against Kougami’s throat and his presence is so incredibly _real_ that it serves to soothe every worry Kougami has about his own sanity. “I’m every bit as lost as you are.” 

“Am I going insane?” Kougami asks more concretely, both desperation creeping into the fringes of his voice. “Isn’t that what insanity is after all? Seeing things that aren’t there?”

“Maybe.” Makishima sighs again. “Maybe not. Maybe you’re a prophet— seeing things that have yet to happen.”

Kougami tightens his grip around Makishima’s waist, the stitches on his side burning. “I don’t want it to be that. I don’t want to go back.”

Makishima nuzzles at Kougami’s neck, lips trailing over his adam’s apple. “I know you don’t.” He whispered. “But it seems to be that if fate has plans for us, they _will_ happen Shinya. I don’t know of any other way to explain why it is that we’re here together now.”

“Maybe you’re the prophet.” Kougami chuckles bitterly.

Makishima doesn't laugh. “Maybe.” He says absently. “Or maybe I’m just pessimistic.”

“About what? The future?” Makishima hums. “That’s a vague thing to be pessimistic about.” 

“Perhaps.” Makishima mumbles, and it’s quickly becoming clear that he doesn’t have much more that he wants to say on the subject, “But my future is tied to yours Shinya, we know that much. And it’ll come to a point down the line where you’ll have to make a choice between me and between those friends that you left back in Japan.”

Kougami opens his mouth to speak but Makishima cuts him off, continuing to speak as he raises his head to meet Kougami’s gaze. 

“We both know,” He says softly, evenly, “that if you have to chance to regain everything you lost— more even, if Sybil’s destruction is in that path— you’ll take it.” He smiles, and the sincerity in that action sends a cold, dismal shock down Kougami’s spine. 

“You—“ He starts, but Makishima just laughs, an empty sort of sound that’s far too beautiful for what it’s for. 

“You’ll kill me yet Shinya, someday.” He murmurs, dipping his head to again rest against Kougami's neck. “But that’s okay.”

Kougami swallows, trying to block out the heavy weights he feels pushing at his chest. Makishima wasn’t saying anything that he didn’t already know, but these were some more of those secret hidden things that Kougami liked to forget existed. The sad little truths that gnawed at him until he felt he could barely carry on. 

Makishima’s humming a tune that he’s never heard before but that he somehow knows by heart. His hair is soft under Kougami’s chin and the weight of his body is the most grounding thing Kougami’s felt since seeing the people he once left behind look at him with sad, pitying expressions and cold, unforgiving fists.

“That’s okay.” He repeats quietly. Because he may kill Makishima yet, but as far as they know neither one of them are prophets and this story’s ending hasn’t been written for them just yet.

**Author's Note:**

> sorry for the sad thing, but these two are unbelievably tragic in terribly beautiful ways
> 
> hmu on [tumblr](http://www.maripoja.tumblr.com)


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